


Tip of the Tongue

by Statementends (Blueberryshortcake)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Addiction, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, M/M, Statement Addiction, Withdrawal, background jonmartin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 23:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21089228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueberryshortcake/pseuds/Statementends
Summary: Jon goes through statement withdrawal. Hunger is the metaphor, but not the feeling.





	Tip of the Tongue

Sweat trickled down Jon’s face, although it was far too cold with the automatic AC in the bowels of the archives. He stared up at the ceiling, cracked plaster faded yellow. 

Martin was taller, bigger, how had he managed on this bed for months on end? In the archives. Never leaving. 

Never leaving.

He wished there was hunger. He used it for a metaphor. So that the others might understand. But it wasn’t a gnawing emptiness at the pit of his stomach. He had been hungry before. His grandmother never withheld meals, but Jon did tend to wander off, miss dinner, get lost in a book, forget to eat. Hunger was so  _ easy  _ to forget about. 

The withdrawal symptoms--that was what it was, insidious addiction--it was curiosity.

An itch. 

The need to know...something. Anything. 

The feeling when a thought or sentence is forgotten. The frustration of a child told they would be informed of the joke when they’re older. A word endlessly on the tip of the tongue. Boredom twisting his brain. Vexation, irritation. All of it turned up high so that it split his brain. Painful ennui. Knowledge that anything he tried to satisfy it with would be unsatisfactory. No book, no article, no made up fairytale would give him what he needed. Give him the thrill and energy he had come to know and need without even realizing it. 

He wanted fear. He wanted to feel their fear. 

He was terrified. 

He hated being afraid, and now being afraid was how he survived. Taking other’s fears feeling it rush through him. 

He put an arm over his eyes. It was typical really. There wasn’t any benefit to his powers. Even when he was being a good little monster the high he got was being afraid. 

He  _ hated  _ being afraid.

But he hated this more. This blank empty page that he needed to fill. 

He hadn’t eaten for at least a day, but he wasn’t hungry. 

He should try to read, or talk to Daisy. Listen to the Archers. Actually try to categorize the archives. Clean the filth he had let pile up in his office. Shower, shave.

He turned on his side, brought the old scratchy blanket up to his chin. It smelled like Martin. He had never noticed Martin having a particular smell, but when he breathed it in the first time he had been startled by it. A clean, fresh, soapy scent that had him inhaling sharply in terrible shaking shock. It made the loneliness stronger than even the cravings. 

He had found it after Melanie had stabbed him. Hiding himself away to lick his wounds so to speak. 

That was why he went to the damned supermarket he--he wanted to see if he could find the brand of soap. 

Instead he found Sal Sannovich, cleaning up a spill with a mop. 

He left without any shopping, but feeling so much better than he had since waking up from the coma. 

Of course he knew it was wrong. He wasn’t so delusional as that. He knew it was wrong. 

He knows it IS wrong.

He knows he can’t. 

Jon curled into a ball. The weight of the eye on him. Always there. Even when he left the archives, although he hasn’t left since Hilltop Road. 

He wanted a statement. A written one might take the edge off, but he had to wait until he can’t stand it anymore. The longer he waited the better payoff it might be. To a starving man three grapes might feel like a hearty meal. 

It wasn’t true. It’s what he tried to convince himself of. 

He shuddered. The aching boredom hurt.

It hurt.

And he was so tired of suffering for others. And he might convince himself that bad dreams and nightmares weren’t the worst his victims might get. He might try to make it all seem reasonable that he go out and keep walking and wandering until he found someone to tell him their story. He could feel his body tug at him. He would Know the direction. He would Know the person.

But Martin had left the tape. 

Basira, Daisy, and Melanie were right--

But the only thing holding him back right now in this moment was--was that Martin had sent the tape. Martin wanted him to stop. 

Maybe if he stopped he’d come back. 

He quietly sobbed into the blanket relieved that there was no click of a tape recorder. 


End file.
